Anglachelm

It had been a long and tiring year for both Manadhlaer and Curulinn, including, on one memorable occasion, both simultaneously. Snow lay on the High Moor, and while it seemed like autumn yet lingered in the Vale, Turuhalmë had just passed. Someone had gifted the healers a large supply of the sweet biscuits charmingly referred to as "cookies" by i Pheriannaith, the Shire-folk, and Manadhlaer's wine-cellar was legendary -- if somewhat diminished since Lord Anglachelm had spent a night in it.

It was not that, as she removed a stack of hairpins, Manadhlaer thought anything had gone particularly wrong at the Ball. Indeed, at times the dance-floor had been an impenetrable Huorn-forest of bodies through which she simply could not struggle hard enough to reach the other side of the room.

Only the last word in the signature line was, for obscure reasons, emphasized in red ink.

Dear Quartermaster Golvagor:

I am writing to request some supplies in the event that hir Tolmen should become a guest at the Houses of Healing.

Arradril of the Order of the Arrow hooked a finger into the collar of her immaculate tabard, as though it were too tight. It had in fact been made to measure, to drape perfectly over the reinforced gambeson that Arrows wore in order to creep about the forest in silence. But Captain Sáranassë was, of late, insisting on visibility -- at least part of the time. So Arradril wore the indigo, inspired by Gondolin's House of the Swallow, and bore herself gravely when within the Vale. Most of the time.

The note is scrawled in an unusually shaky hand.

My lord,

I have paid this courier a great deal of money to find you, and I hope he does. Lord Tindir is away, and the matter before us is urgent to a degree I felt you must know.

Lothilind of the Pillar, who had become an apprentice at the Houses of Healing, has been murdered in the Vale. We discovered her poor hröa under a bush, downhill from the Markets of Imladris.

Besides the obvious security implications, these things should be known:

My beloved liege,

I wanted to tell you of my dream -- I dreamed of Themodir once more.

But first, I will report that I have tried the corn beverage on hir Silwë and hir Tolmen, who are both long-lived Noldor of good constitution. (Tuilerie and Ailinwen were also nearby, but Tuilerie never takes strong drink, and Ailinwen was perhaps too intelligent to try it.)

My oathsworn lord, 

I am in receipt of 137 waggons of corn, sent by you. I am a bit confused, since I am quite certain I sent you a requisition for sand, in which to preserve the ancient tomes in the chest delivered to me after the expedition to the Ered Luin.